Page 98 of Cruel Cravings

Her lips curl into a smirk, her talon nails sinking into my cheek and drawing blood.

“Shut the hell up,” she hisses, venom in each word. “Nobody can hear you. Nobody will be coming. Nobody even gives a damn!”

I whimper beneath her palm, my mind on the only two people who bring me comfort. My sister and Brontë, both of whom are beginning to feel like figments of my imagination the longer I’m tethered to this bed. The more days go by and the more pills are jammed down my throat.

Nurse Big Bird seems to sense what’s on my mind because a flicker of cruel amusement passes across her face.

“Jael, how many times do we have to tell you? There is no Brontë. There is no shadow man. And your sister? She’sdead.”

“NO!” I scream despite myself. I’m silenced, her warm, latex palm still over my mouth, but I scream the desperate word anyway. A jolt of energy rushes me as I renew my protests, thrashing against the leather binds. “NOOOOOOO!”

“Sedate her. Now.”

Nurse Big Bird steps back and the orderlies hurry forward. The one on the right forces a metal gag between my lips to keep my mouth wide open. The other on the left snatches the paper cup of pills off the cart and pours them down my waiting throat. I sputter, coughing as the thick pills slip painfully down my esophagus in burning fashion.

But they’ve already moved onto the syringes.

They each take one in their hands and tap against the plastic barrel to check for bubbles.

“Please,” I cry, tears wetting my eyes. The sound’s gibberish with the metal gag in my mouth, but it bubbles out of me anyway.

The anguish, the desperation, the sense of helplessness that feels never ending.

Nurse Big Bird simply smiles and steps back, watching as if entertained. The needles pinch as they pierce my veins and the sedatives flow through me.

It’ll be a matter of minutes before I lose consciousness.

“Next time,” she warns, “we’ll be bringing in the ECT device. Maybe a few more shocks will scramble that brain the right way.”

She turns toward the door, her clean, perfect white shoes thudding against the floor as she leads the orderlies out. The cart rattles as they push it away, the sound fading as the door swings shut behind them.

Silence settles over the padded room once more. Cushioned walls that will filter out any noise I make, regardless of how loud.

I’m alone.

No one’s coming. No one knows, and if they did, they don’t care.

My body shakes with violent sobs. Tears pour down my cheeks as I stare blankly at the darkness and think about thetimes I used to seehimlurking. He would always be there, waiting for me, watching me.

A comforting presence I didn’t even understand how to appreciate.

The effects of the drugs are already creeping up, reaching for me like a tide about to pull me under. My limbs grow heavier, weigh down to the bed by more than the leather straps. The room starts to feel like it’s spinning, blurring at the edges.

I turn my head anyway, searching the darkest corner of the room.

I stare into the void, praying that he’ll emerge. He’ll let me know I’m not alone and that he’s real. He’ll save me somehow and we’ll escape like before and find my sister. We’re in this together.

But the dark shapes in the room never shift. The corners remain empty.

There’s no one here.

A sick, nauseating sensation curls in my stomach, making me feel as if I am free-falling. I’m plunging into a black void that leads nowhere, doomed to repeat this hellish nightmare over and over again.

The possibility I had refused to consider before suddenly becomes too loud, too real.

What if Nurse Hinkley was right? What if Dr. Wolford has been right all along?

My sister’s dead… and Brontë’s never been real…

---